continue.
This is what happens when your life goes nowhere.
This is what he tells me with a strange sort of deliberation. I don’t understand it now, watching him in the same vaguely interested way I always did. He smokes on my porch sometimes, long fingers of the most perfect ivory extended to hold between them a single cigarette. With each exhale goes a part of his soul, fleeing from his tangible form to kiss the air, to fly far away from the imprisonment of his physical form. This is what he says, the boy that graces me with his presence that allows me to stand within his perfection. His face is almost always blank, devoid of anythi